


Difficult

by Northerlywind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bombs, Flashbacks, PTSD John, The Empty Hearse Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:03:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northerlywind/pseuds/Northerlywind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John decides enough is enough. </p><p>Alternative scene in 'The Empty Hearse'. Inspired by the tumblr post 'If John had just stood there while Sherlock was laughing'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Difficult

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meggannn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggannn/gifts).



staycalmstaycalmstaycalm.

He blew air in and out of his cheeks, trying to force off the world that pressed too close for comfort. _I find it difficult_ , he had said. The walls of the tube car were fuzzy, sliding in and out of focus. John blinked. A breeze of sand whipped across his cheeks, burrowing in the sharp bristles of his hair. Another blink. The harsh sunlit sky burned, scarring his vision with blinding streaks, then faded. The air was tight, hot — too hot. _I find it difficult, this sort of stuff._ He clenched his teeth, gave his head a stern shake as if to throw out the memories that threatened to choke him. Not here. Not now. 

He met Sherlock's eyes. They were going to die. Sherlock and John were going to die. Sherlock and John and dozens of politicians and God knows who else. Sherlock's face floated before him, unusually passive with quiet desperation. _I can't do it, John_. 

Fuck. 

His fists curled, his shoulders squared, bracing against the inevitable. He tried to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, fighting to breathe. It felt like an iron hand gripped his throat, choking him. He pushed against the sensation, trying to reclaim some of his breath. 

Fuck!

He was lost. Shouts rang in his ears. Boots thumped rhythmically into the distance. _Please God, let me live. Please._

The glow of the timer danced, ticking down obediently. Red. Blink. Red. Blink. Red. His vision pulsed, flickered. _Stop it now. Come on, stop it._ Acquiescence beckoned, tendrils of remembrance pulling him back. His eyelids slammed shut eagerly, his chest rose sharply and- 

Release. His mind flooded with light. 

guns ghosts gurneys bombs bullets blood leg live limp

Watson, Watson, John Hamish Watson

run and stumble touch and go up and over

a burst of pain that alights by his clavicle and burrows into him, an explosion, the hiss of a sparkler too near, the waves of petrol that engulf him-

John was thrust back into the present. His eyes squinted, opened in confusion, still dazzled by flecks of the Afghan landscape. His legs went weak, and he clutched the poles near him to protect himself from the bitter reality that he returned to. Reluctantly, his head lifted and his vision took purchase, bringing the dark-haired man before him into focus. The remnants melted away, distant, going, gone. The man was laughing. No, _Sherlock_ was laughing. A rush of air filled John's lungs and he hungrily plucked fresh breaths out of the brisk air before him. He was safe, he was here, he was fine because Sherlock was laughing. 

At first John thought it was a _bet-he-wasn't-a-very-good-cabbie_ kind of laugh. But, unlike _bet he wasn't a very good cabbie,_ John hadn't said anything remotely funny. In fact, as the situation clicked back into place, he knew it was far from a light-hearted predicament. So, what? His thoughts whirred slowly into motion, like a waterwheel through molasses. Then it was a _people-will-talk_ kind of giggle, that nervous outburst after trauma, that relief of we're safe, that broken tension of things past. But the eyes weren't right, the contortions around the mouth weren't right. Something was very wrong.

A blinking movement caught his wandering attention and his gaze slipped over. 1:29- 28- 29- 28- 29- 28- 

Comprehension slowly washed over him and settled uncomfortably in his chest.

I thought we were dead, I thought my fiancé would have to live without me, I thought these were my last words so I tried to make them last. The real _please god let me live_. Except it was _of course I forgive you_ because they'd put up a bloody good fight hadn't they, and it was time to accept defeat, accept that it was yes now. I thought, I thought, I thought. I thought I was somewhere else Sherlock because it's difficult for me Sherlock. It's difficult, except while you observe instead of look, you fail to listen instead of hear. I thought we were going to die and countless others with us because neither of us knew what to do with a bloody bomb. For all the lives I saved, that would have been no use because I wasn't in bomb disposal. I went in to heal but should have tried to fix. I thought I had failed to save them. Failed to save _us_. 

He could have said all that, but he didn't. Instead he just choked out, 'You-' and stopped short. There were no words to describe it. 

John's ears passed on snippets of sound, _your face_ , and _had you_ and- things broke into pieces after that because he was very, very, very angry. 

His body tensed against the icy silence, his eyes hardened into a steely look. He felt, as the expression goes, chilled to the bone. Because for all that Sherlock had ever done to him, John never expected something like this. He was just- just a _game_ to be played by Sherlock, to be toyed around with. Just a fucking jester to laugh at. 

Finally, Sherlock's laughter eased and he noticed. Noticed the expression - or lack thereof - on his blogger's face. Sherlock's own expression slacked and fell off.  _Not good?_

John wondered if this was what shock really felt like, or if this was what not-taking-any-more-of-Sherlock's-shit felt like, or something else entirely. Fuck. He couldn't think straight; his thoughts were still a jumbled haze of gunpowder, treason, plot. t-t-t-t, t-t-t-t, t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t. Echoes pounded in his skull, an insistent reminder of his past. 

At last, something pierces his stupor: a hesitant word, filled to the brim with uncertainty. 'John?' 

A word tinged with the beginnings of remorse, shaking with a plea for understanding. For _forgiveness_. Ha. 

'What's wrong?'

John dared to look him in the eyes and saw nothing but a heartless man whom he thought was his _friend_. If John could, _he_ would laugh now. Best and wisest man- best and wisest- bestandwisest bestandwise- He wished he could take back that praise now, clutch them close to his chest and take them back with him to not-221B so he would never, _ever_ be betrayed again by the- the _selfish_ man before him. The man who suddenly looked very small and sorry. But two minutes ago, that very man looked just as small and sorry and yet. And yet. Lies. Manipulation. Fury took hold of John by the shoulders and spun him around. 

'John, wait-'

He didn't wait. Instead, he let himself be led away by his heart, his closely-held heart, which pulled him north, far from the man John _thought_ he knew. Now John knew he was stupid, foolish to think he would mean anything to Sherlock Holmes, as stupid and foolish as the very Holmes treated John to be. The man who, John thought, cared for his wellbeing. The man who demanded _Are you okay?_  

Sherlock, by the pool, with the Browning L9A1. In this new light, what remained now of that memory was Sherlock craving assurance that he did no wrong, to free him of the guilt that he might have put another human into danger. Because the great Sherlock Holmes could do no wrong, except when he does, and does catastrophically. Selfish. 

He was so intent on just getting _out_ that he failed to catch the rustle of coat and the billow of a sleeve raised to catch him. A tug on his coat. He bristled with irritation and shrugged it off violently. A startled shuffle of shoes flashed behind him. John pushed his way through the gap in the doors, ignoring the stab in his shoulder as he grazed past. Another plea came out, but he pressed onwards, landing on the ground with a short exhale, so overwhelmed that he barely caught himself from lunging into the live tracks. He heard no more rustles and deduced — yes, John could do it _too_ — that Sherlock was not about to follow him. 

The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional whine of wind in the tunnels, reminding John that he had somewhere _else_ to be. A warm flat, with no place for Sherlock Holmes. Good riddance.

And, because the occasion warranted _some_ finality, he said: ' _Goodbye_ , Sherlock'. His voice shook, but with anger, not sorrow. 

With that, he marched home, the lonely beam of his flashlight his only companion. 

If Sherlock looked small before, he is but a speck of dust now. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've written this all in one go at half past two in the morning, so apologies for the likely mistakes. Please review!


End file.
